


Untitled

by Luciferious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciferious/pseuds/Luciferious





	Untitled

Dean awakes to pain. Deep, dull _buzzing_ pain that seems to permeate his entire body, tingling down into his bones and burning hot out over his skin. Old pain. For a few, dizzying moments with his eyes still shut and his head aching, Dean doesn't know where he is, doesn't remember what day it is. But he's used to this. And instead of panicking, he simply lays there and allows the world to return to him slowly, taking comfort in the knowledge that at the very least, he's alive. He hurts too much not to be.

It's cold. Beyond the heat on his skin, blazing across his ribs and stomach, Dean feels the chill there, sharp and pressing in on him. His fingers are numb, and Dean slowly starts to move them just to make sure they're still there, scratching across rough fabric that Dean only recognizes as a blanket when he finally opens his eyes into dim, flickering candlelight. 

He remembers where he is now. The old house on Edgewood, moldy and creaking with the burnt-out garage, the whole house still smelling faintly of smoke. He and Sam have been squatting here for at least a week, and at the thought of his brother Dean suddenly turns over fast enough that his body is wracked with pain, a low groan rumbling through clenched teeth as he fights to push himself up. He's already half-propped against a corner of the room, an old, musty-smelling couch cushion tucked behind him. The bare mattress under him creaks and groans as he shifts and it takes Dean too long to get his focus back and finally spot Sam, hazy through a white cloud of Dean's own condensed breath.

"Sam," Dean croaks, his throat dry and raw, coughing on the back edge of it with a wince as the movement tugs and pulls at his side. Dean shoves a hand up under the bottom of his sweatshirt and can feel the knotting of stitches with his bare fingertips, dental floss and wire holding him together. 

Sam sits up suddenly, like Dean's just snapped him out of almost-sleep, pushing away from the wall he's leaned against with his too-long legs still stretched out in front of him. Sam looks like _hell_ , dark circles under his eyes from too little sleep, hair stringy from dried sweat. He hasn't showered in days. Neither has Dean—there's no running water here and they're out of money. They've been out of money for a while.

"Dean." There's something shaken in Sam's voice that makes Dean's stomach drop, and he watches, still half doubled-over as Sam untangles himself from a ratty flannel blanket. He's just wearing a t-shirt underneath and Dean fights the urge to call him a dumbass, it's January in Illinois, _you're gonna get yourself sick, Sammy, and I can't take care of you._

Dean's jaw clamps shut when Sam crawls closer, and he can see the blood stains soaking through Sam's shirt, drying brown across his arm and chest and over his side. It doesn't take Dean very long to realize the blood is _his_ —Sam's bruised and scraped, but he's not hurt enough for all that blood to be his own. Sam kneels on the mattress at Dean's side, cold, stiff hands pushing at Dean's shoulders, trying to get him to lie back again, and Dean doesn't have it in him to resist, groaning again as he twists.

"You're okay?" Sam's almost whispering, tone something close to pleading, like the words are less a question than an affirmation and if Sam just says them out loud enough times, it'll be true. Sam pushes the blankets down around Dean's waist and yanks up the bottom of his sweatshirt, pressing a hand to Dean's chest as he looks over his wounds. Dean hisses and recoils and it's half from the pain and half from how _freezing_ Sam's hand is on his too-hot skin, a shiver cutting through him as Sam draws his thumb across it, soothing. Familiar.

"Sure." Dean laughs, breathy and raw, watching as Sam touches and checks. Dean twists as much as he can when Sam tugs at him to get a look around his back, grinding his teeth and making a weak sound he'd be embarrassed by any other day, in front of any other person. Sam finally lets him settle, and Dean breathes through the pain with a smirk. "All sunshine and rainbows on my end, Sammy. Be up and at it in no time."

It seems that Sam doesn't find Dean's joking all that appropriate, lips still curled into a tight frown, expression grim and terrified as he tugs Dean's clothes back into place. Sam doesn't look at Dean, not directly, pulling the blankets back up over Dean's chest. His arms are covered in goosebumps. He's shivering.

"Hungry?" Sam goes for the duffle bag closest to the mattress, digging around in it and pulling out a bottle of water, cracking the seal. Dean's eyes move to the camping stove set up in the middle of the room, and he's the one frowning now, seeing Sam offering the bottle to him in his periphery, but not moving to take it. His stomach feels empty, but the thought of food makes it lurch, and Dean shakes his head. He doesn't feel very thirsty, either, but the water ought to soothe his burning throat. Dean takes the bottle.

Sam eyes him warily, and as Dean tilts his head back to take a drink, he sees the way Sam's cheeks shine in the light, slicked wet with tears. Any desire Dean might have had to make another joke fades, and something like shame and regret takes over instead. He could have died. He could have bled out right there. He could have left Sam all alone, and his throat tightens up as he drinks. Dean coughs through it and hands the bottle back, feeling sick and clammy and exhausted all over again now. Dean can tell by the look on his brother's face that Sam wants to argue, wants to _make him_ eat, but doesn't, sighing as he screws the cap back on and sets it on the floor next to the mattress. 

"In the morning, then," he says, and Dean doesn't nod, doesn't do anything but watch in silence as Sam pushes himself up to his feet. He's stiff and clearly sore, grimacing as he stretches and shoves his hand through unwashed hair, and Dean frowns again, clenching his jaw as Sam turns and starts to walk away, back to his blanket piled up against the wall. Dean knows that Sam won't sleep. He'll sit there and he'll watch Dean all night and into the morning, still wearing that bloody t-shirt in the freezing cold, and Dean's almost _angry_  at the thought. Yes, he's hurt. Yes, it's serious. But Dean couldn't care less about a bit of that, if it means Sam making himself hurt on Dean's behalf.

"Sam." His brother's name is past Dean's lips before he has the chance to second-guess himself. Sam's got his blanket in his hands, about to shake it out, but he stops as Dean speaks, looking over at him. His eyes are welling up again—Dean can see it even from this far away, and Dean realizes he doesn't have the words for what he wants. He can't tell Sam to sleep; he won't listen. He can't tell Sam not to worry; he won't listen. He can't tell Sam to take care of himself, because it's Dean's job to look out for him, always has been and always will be, and Dean just sits there, hand pressed to his side again and staring up at his brother.

But somehow, some way, Sam seems to understand. Without words, without gestures. Just in looking back at him and knowing him, better than anyone else. And something in Sam's expression is torn, _broken,_  twisting the blanket between his hands. A sharp shiver wracks through Sam, and Dean sits up a little more, ready at this point to insist, if he has to, tell Sam to knock it off and just _fucking get over here already._ But before Dean has the chance, Sam moves. Blanket still twisted in his grip, Sam steps over old newspapers and broken bits of glass, floorboards creaking under his weight. Sam's jeans are as torn-up and blood-stained as his shirt, but Dean's eyes are on his brother's face as he kneels back down on the mattress again, spreading his blanket out over top of Dean's. Sam won't look at him, focusing his attention on the blankets. Stalling.

And then he's tugging back the corners of them both, boots pressing into the dirty mattress as he turns and shifts, sliding across it on his hip, up under the blankets at Dean's side. Dean doesn't feel the warmth of him so much as he feels Sam shaking, and if nothing else, at least now Sam won't die of hypothermia in the night. Dean's eyes close, and it's as much for Sam's sake as it is his own exhaustion, darkness creeping in again as a warm arm gently slides over Dean's side, one large hand pushed up against Dean's chest, over his heart. Dean sighs, can almost feel a cloud of cold breath cast from his lips, even if he can't see it, and he ignores the part of him that wishes he didn't have to be ripped open and close to death in order to have this. It's exhausted, delirious thought and nothing more.

Dean feels the hood on his sweatshirt shift and bunch around the back of his shoulders, and there are goosebumps on his skin now, at the warm push of Sam's nose into his hair. Sam's still shivering, and Dean's not sure it's just from the cold anymore, almost able to feel the thump of Sam's heart against his back, pressed close like this.

And then, there are warm, chapped lips, pushing against the nape of his neck. Blazing hot and shaking, terrified and hopeful and needing all at once.

Dean doesn't say a word.


End file.
